Chapter 4 Chicago—Remy
Chicago—Remy
The flight to Chicago passed without incident, but the calm felt fake—borrowed time rather than peace.
By the time Remy picked up the rental car and adjusted the mirrors twice before pulling out of the parking garage—a habit he never broke—unease had already settled deep in his bones.
Every turn of the steering wheel required intention.
He gripped it too tightly, knuckles paling, as though letting go for even a second would cost him awareness.
He kept his focus on the road ahead, breath measured, eyes tracking mirrors and exits until the garage disappeared behind him.
He should have let Clay drive.
He knew that.
But surrendering the wheel felt too much like surrendering everything else.
A disembodied voice from the navigation app cut through the silence. “Turn left at the next intersection.” The words reached his ears—but didn’t quite land.
Instead, they dissolved into the imagined thrum of rotor blades.
This low, relentless beat reverberated through his head as if the sound had roots in his bones.
It wasn’t real. He knew that. But knowledge did nothing to stop the vibration crawling up his spine, tightening his chest, dragging him backward.
Chicago blurred at the edges, buildings warping, streetlights elongating into pale, trembling smears. The present fractured under the weight of memory, and for a heartbeat too long—far too long—Remy saw Bastien.
Not the man he was now, solid and breathing. But the Bastien from then—frozen in a moment Remy had replayed in his head more times than he cared to admit. A version of his brother caught between life and loss, pain and silence, a memory that arrived without mercy and never asked permission to stay.
Remy drove straight through the intersection.
“Damnit, Remy! You trying to get us killed?” Clay leaned forward, pointing to a convenience store on the right. “Pull into that parking lot and let me drive!”
Remy’s jaw clenched. “Shut up and tell me where to go.”
“The app just told you.”
“I’m not pulling over. Just tell me which street to take.”
Clay exhaled. “The next right. And if you miss it—”
Remy flipped him off and cut the wheel sharply, tires protesting as the car lurched into the turn.
“According to David,” Clay continued, unfazed, “Marcelle’s townhouse is mid-block on the right. She’s got a black BMW. Slow down so we don’t miss it.”
Remy scanned the curb like a man searching for a lifeline. “There’s the Bimmer.”
Clay blinked, then nodded once. “Okay. Good. Now pull over.”
Remy did—too abruptly. The engine died, and the sudden silence pressed in thick and airless. He stayed seated, hands still on the wheel, chest rising and falling as if he’d just run a mile rather than driven a few blocks.
Clay studied him. “How do you want to handle this?”
Remy didn’t answer right away. Truth was, he didn’t want to handle it at all. He pulled out his phone, sent Bastien another text—We’re here—and stared at the screen as if sheer will might summon a reply.
Nothing came.
His gut tightened, instinct stirring awake like a trained animal scenting danger. Slowly, methodically, his conditioning rose to meet his fear. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pair of rubber gloves, and handed them to Clay.
“We knock first,” Remy said, voice steadier than he felt. “If no one answers, I pick the lock. If they’re dead, we back out and call the police.”
Clay nodded, slipping the gloves into his pocket. “Gotcha.”
Remy opened the car door and stepped out into the cool Chicago air. It smelled like asphalt and rain and old brick—ordinary scents that felt painfully out of place against the dread building in his chest.
“My gut tells me there’s a problem,” he said quietly.
As they approached the townhouse, Remy let his mind run ahead of his body. He pictured the entryway, the rooms beyond, the outcomes—each one darker than the last. He forced himself to breathe, to stay present, to be ready.
Whatever waited inside, he knew one thing with chilling certainty:
This was the moment before everything changed.
“So does my gut,” Clay said. “But we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t think there was one. Let’s find out what’s going on.” Clay joined Remy on the sidewalk. “When was the last time you saw Marcelle?”
“It’s been a couple of years.”
“And you never hooked up with her?”
“She’s not my type.”
Clay cocked his head. “She plays the trumpet, and she’s not your type?”
“And she’s Cajun, and she’s still not my type,” Remy added.
“Because of her PhD? Didn’t I hear you say you didn’t want a brainiac?”
“Sounds like me. But Marcelle is Bastien’s sister. You don’t mess with your friends’ sisters.” Remy stepped over to her BMW and looked inside. The backseat was full of sheet music, half-empty water bottles, and muddy running shoes.
“A messy car like this would drive you nuts,” Clay said.
“Drives Bastien crazy. He woan ride with her.” Remy stared at the townhouse’s front door, but his feet wouldn’t move.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Clay’s question barely penetrated his frozen brain. “Yeah. I’m a little—”
“Worried? I don’t blame you. Why don’t I go in first? That will give you time to prepare if—”
Remy used his arm as a barrier to keep Clay from moving ahead.
“Bastien wouldn’t back away, and neither will I.
” He sucked in his fear and marched toward the front door with the ease of someone going to his friend’s house to jam in the garage.
But his enthusiasm faltered. He started combat breathing—in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four—then repeated it until the rush in his ears softened.
Clay rested his hand briefly on Remy’s shoulder. “Give me the tool to pick the lock.”
Remy pulled on disposable gloves. “I can do it.” He rang the doorbell. When he didn’t hear anyone on the other side, he rang it again. He jabbed it hard enough to drive it through the wall.
“Nobody’s going to answer,” Clay said. “Try the doorknob.”
Remy tensed as he turned the brass knob—and tensed more when the door opened.
He drew his weapon. “Stay close and doan touch anything.”
He pushed the door ajar and stepped into the foyer, using the solo clearing-the-room technique he’d learned in the Army.
To the right were the living room, dining area, and kitchen. A grand piano stood in front of a bay window. He signaled Clay to stay behind him as he crossed the open floor plan and cleared the kitchen before returning to the foyer.
Remy’s nose twitched, a reflex he couldn’t stop. He paused just inside the foyer, head tilting slightly as he drew in a careful breath. The air felt wrong—too thick, too old. “I smell peat.”
“It’s faint,” Clay said. “Maybe Marcelle’s been gardening.”
Remy’s gaze swept the entryway. The spotless floors, the absence of soil, pots, or discarded gloves. His shoulders tightened. “Does it look like she’s been doing indoor gardening?”
“No. But other things smell earthy. Like wet wool. Dried grass. A dog.”
Remy took another breath, slower this time, forcing the air deeper into his lungs. The scent clung there, stubborn and unmistakable. “Doan see any dried grass. Or a dog. Do you?”
Clay shot him a look. “Why are you so snarky?”
Remy’s hand tightened on the grip of his Sig. His eyes never stopped moving. “I doan like that smell.”
Clay lifted a hand, palm out, trying to slow the tempo. “Let’s check the other side of the foyer.”
Remy stepped forward without answering, placing himself squarely between Clay and the unknown. “Stay behind me,” he said, voice clipped.
“You can holster the Sig,” Clay murmured. “Nobody’s here.”
For a moment, Remy resisted. Then he stilled—listening, sensing beyond sound. The house felt hollow, like a breath held and never released. Clay was right. Whatever had been here… wasn’t anymore.
Slowly, reluctantly, Remy eased the weapon back into its holster. “Yeah,” he said, more to himself than Clay. “It’s empty.”
The silence pressed in harder once the gun was away.
He glanced toward the hallway, shoulders rolling as he reset. “Let’s check the bedrooms.”
As he moved deeper into the townhouse, the peat-heavy air followed—quiet, patient, waiting.
The first bedroom stopped Remy short.
An open suitcase lay sprawled across the bed, its sides sagging under the weight of men’s clothing—neatly folded shirts, running gear, socks rolled with military precision. The ordinariness of it made his chest tighten.
He stepped closer, crouched, and pinched the luggage tag between his fingers. His jaw set. “It’s Bastien’s.”
There was no triumph in the discovery. Only confirmation.
He moved through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom and lifted the leather Dopp kit from the counter—worn, soft at the edges, well cared for. He turned it slightly, thumb brushing the embossed letters. “Those are Bastien’s initials.”
Clay lingered in the doorway, silent now, letting Remy lead.
The second room felt different immediately—more deliberate, more lived-in.
An office. An open laptop sat on the desk, its screen dimmed but still breathing faint heat.
File folders lay scattered beside stacks of mail, the casual mess of a mind always in motion.
Remy flipped through the pile until something glossy caught the light.
He lifted the invitation, its metallic accents flashing. “Here’s the invitation to last night’s Symphony Roaring Twenties Gala.” He set it down, where it landed askew, the elegance suddenly hollow. This room wasn’t a threat. It was a record.
A framed photograph hung at eye level: Bastien, sweat-streaked and triumphant, crossing the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Marcelle had captured the moment perfectly—the exhaustion, the pride, the quiet disbelief of achievement earned the hard way.
Remy stared longer than he meant to.